


Men In Hats

by ApocalypseThen



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Spectre Requisitions Rare Pair Exchange 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23015542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApocalypseThen/pseuds/ApocalypseThen
Summary: Zaeed meets Hackett in the 2170's. It's not their first encounter. It won't be their last. It is however, the hairiest they've ever been.
Relationships: Steven Hackett/Zaeed Massani
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7
Collections: Spectre Requisitions 2020





	Men In Hats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThreeWhiskeyLunch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/gifts).



Zaeed knows he'll be lucky to get through this without taking a crack at those chops. His capacity for introspection took the same long boozy bath as the rest of his higher cognitive functions, but he never was one for second thoughts to begin with. He reckons it's probably too late to learn to hold his tongue.

They're bothering him, though, because he just can't figure out _why_. It's not like they do anything to detract from the livid weal that slices Hackett's grim puss, or as if they could conceal the worry lines that spill from under his cap and only peter out somewhere in the neck of his dress blues.

Zaeed wonders idly if those lines are his, the tracks of his lustful caress weathered into a map. Can anyone else read those directions? Has anyone?

He cuts off the thought before he gets emotional. It's still his go-to, when he's having a little trouble _maintaining_ , when he's distracted. That chest. Those icy blues. Now add: those fluffy salt-and-pepper mutton chops.

Zaaed controls the urge to giggle. The way his throat is these days he'd probably choke on his own tongue if he did. "Is that a new hat?" he asks.

It's not. Hackett knows that he knows. There are more stars on it than last time, to go with the weight of stripes on his shoulders, but it's the same hat. Hackett shifts a little, not uncomfortable but impatient. "Make it quick, Massani."

Zaeed lets his eyelids affect a blithe droop to hide his desires. What he wants is for the dour vice-admiral to knock the flimsy café table aside and just take him like it was their first time again, but this is the seventies, and public displays of affection are out, snazzy hats and facial hair are back in.

Zaeed himself is sporting a mud-brown pork-pie with a scarlet band, tilted back like the young bloods do, the better to show off the blonde soup-strainer that lofts out over his upper lip. He strokes it with his finger and thumb now, but stops when he reaches the scar. Hackett stirs just a millimeter, and Zaeed's heart leaps. "Lose the goons," he says, nodding to the galaxy's least subtle security detail, agressively ignoring their stimulant-free beverages a couple of tables over.

"Not a chance," Hackett replies. "And if you're thinking of asking me for another favour,” he pauses ominously, “think again."

Five years ago, when his rage at Vido was still burning as fiercely as his ruined eye-socket itched, he'd done no such thing. The bug he'd planted on Hackett's ultra-wide lapel (and thank _fuck_ that fashion crime went out with the sixties, and he could throw away that awful mustard-yellow double-breasted jumpsuit) had half-way penetrated the Alliance datacore before he'd lost the signal. Still, he'd retrieved a few useful nuggets that kept his expensive revenge fantasies alive a little while longer. Hackett's condescending recasting of his elegant subterfuge as open-handed supplication is calculated to burn, but Zaeed smiles thinly. Trading blows has always been their preliminary.

"All right," Zaeed allows, "keep your knickers on."

Hackett's grip tightens around his glass of water. He does everything but growl. The fact he's still sitting there tells Zaeed more than anything he could say.

"Been seeing more of that new outfit sniffing around," Zaaed says. "Call themselves Cerberus. Thought you'd be interested."

Hackett perks up like a dog staring down a treat. Well, one of his forehead creases throws deeper shade, but Zaeed knows what _that_ means. Hackett's horny and pent up, just how Zaeed likes him.

Which is about the only way Zaeed likes him, for that matter. Why exactly the commander, then captain, now vice-admiral, can only sustain an erection once he's been fed a hank of intel so fresh it's still dripping, is a question that Zaeed long ago stopped bothering with. It's enough for him that Hackett doesn't see his ruined face, his regret-pickled liver, the ever-growing body count he leaves in his wake.

Hackett sees past all that to the horny brat inside. Zaeed wants his punishment so badly it hurts, but he can’t just ask for it. He fiddles with his hat, strokes his moustache again. “Fact is, they offered me a job,” he says.

Hackett looks away. When he looks back, his cloud of facial hair twitches even if his mouth doesn’t smile. “You should take it.”

_You’re scum and you belong with scum,_ is what he means. “I’m just not sure about the uniform. Makes my arse look...”

Hackett’s already rising, his patience or his time exhausted. His gaze flicks out to his security goons, ordering with his eyes. In scant seconds he’s across the street and his transport swoops to pick him up, its priority override neatly emasculating the local traffic computer.

Zaeed finishes his coffee and orders another. “Those fucking chops,” he sniggers to himself, hands clasping at nothing. The waiter looks at him oddly and Zaeed stares him away with his bad eye, tipless.

His hotel room is as filthy as he can make it. His latest time-saving innovation has been to pay off the cleaning staff – and it’s already no mean feat to get past security in the kind of hotel that still has organics do the menial labour – to let him into a suite that’s just been used, preferably by a bachelor party or some other even more debauched and licentious group; loss adjusters or some such. Zaeed has made sure no surface is free of its ciggarette butt, no fabric is left unstained.

It’s hard fucking work, chainsmoking the afternoon away, nursing a brace of whiskies. He puts his feet up and surveys his work, grimly satisfied, gut churning with anticipation. He knows the waiting makes it better. Hackett’s never stood him up yet. Still, there could always be a first time. The demands on a vice-admiral’s time are surely endless.

Hackett runs hot, and always has. He channels that passion tightly, letting its needle force slice and dice whatever stands in its way, but Zaeed knows he needs an outlet, just the same. Perhaps he has other ways, other people to unwind his ratchet. Ten years ago Zaeed wouldn't have cared. Five years, and he would have just laughed at the idea of jealousy.

Today the thought of anyone else's hands on Hackett's body makes his skin burn. He doesn't know what changed, how his obsession's taken hold. It's just sex, for fuck's sake, mind-blowing though it may be. He wonders how long he'll wait for Hackett to show up, and if the length of that time could define a thing like love.

He's taking a piss when there's a knock at the door.


End file.
